


you just own it

by noobishere



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:06:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27877314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noobishere/pseuds/noobishere
Summary: He bites his lip as he unhooks the jacket, feeling like he's five years old again, snooping around his mother's closet and trying on her heels.(a.k.a the one where robbe wears sander's clothes)
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 22
Kudos: 139





	you just own it

**Author's Note:**

> imma be honest, this is completely pointless

  


_I'll be running a biiiit late_

  


Robbe sighs when he reads the text that just came through. Sander was supposed to be back by now, helping him study, but apparently there's a lot more shit he has to do at the Academie, so now he's alone in Sander's room with his books and notes all scattered on the bed. 

He snaps his books shut and throws himself on his back. His head hangs off the end of Sander's bed as he stretches, bones clicking from staying in the same position for too long, the tips of his fingers touching the floor as he does. The mattress seems to share his dismay as it hisses softly, accompanying his soft sigh, deflating and engulfing him once he's done stretching. 

Robbe lies there, with his head still hanging upside down, fingers clasped on his stomach as he takes in the stillness. 

Sander's off to his college for a coursework that requires face to face lessons and his parents are both working full time jobs, so Robbe is alone with his thoughts, waiting for his boyfriend to come home, kind of done with studying for now.

All these online classes he's had to endure is making him feel stuffy; all he does is stay in his room and stare at the computer screen. It's all bullshit anyways because for every damn class, the first ten minutes is always wasted on roll calls and loud feedbacks because some fuckers in his class don't know how to turn off their mics. Robbe ends up googling stuff on his own or calling Yasmina for help. Sometimes, when he feels the need for a change of scenery, he'd camp out in the living room, but sometimes, like today, he'd beg his mother to let him stay at Sander's for a night. His mother's gotten a lot more lenient with that, thank fuck.

And it had been going well, with Robbe parked in Sander's bed while Sander did his own thing at his desk, but then noon came and Sander had to leave, looking apologetic when Robbe had whined, promising to be back in two hours at least. 

Robbe heaves out another sigh, fingers drumming against his stomach, eyes roaming the room aimlessly before they land on the door. His fingers halt.

There, hooked on the door, is Sander's leather jacket; it's too cold to be functioning, so Sander's ditched it for the time being for a proper winter coat. Next to the jacket is a pair of Sander's jeans and one of his graphic tees.

For a few seconds, Robbe could have sworn time seems to have stopped for a bit as he stares at his boyfriend's usual get up.

Checking his phone for any new texts from Sander and seeing none, Robbe slowly sits up. He clears his throat, to no one in particular, fixes his shirt that had ridden up, and stands up.

He approaches the door with hesitant steps, thinking to himself this is a bad idea, but he's bored out of his mind, brain too tired to take in anymore information, and he's _alone._

The soft well-worn jacket feels familiar when Robbe runs his fingers down it — a soft smile playing on his lips — cool to the touch without the warmth of a body heat. 

He bites his lip as he unhooks the jacket, feeling like he's five years old again, snooping around his mother's closet and trying on her heels.

Taking in a deep breath, he puts the jacket on and immediately feels better, like being wrapped up in Sander's warm hugs. Robbe groans in the next second, feeling absolutely mortified with himself for being this pathetically lovesick.

He rests his forehead against the door to collect himself, but his gaze falls on the jeans. 

_Oh god._

There's no going back when Robbe realises he's already taking off his pants, hanging them by the hook where Sander's jeans had occupied a few seconds ago. His heart in his throat as he stares at the jeans he's used to seeing on Sander, in his hands. 

Now, Robbe knows through personal experience how difficult it is to take off these tight jeans, but pulling them on is a fucking feat. The fabric clings to his skin; He plucks at the seam that's digging uncomfortably against his ass and waddles over to the body length mirror that's across the room.

Robbe concludes that he looks ridiculous, with the oversized leather jacket and the tight black jeans that only accentuates how thin he is; he looks like a fucking stick. 

He's pretty sure Sander is just as thin as he is, if not thinner, but he somehow rocks this look in a way Robbe could only dream of. 

Through the mirror, he sees the black tee hanging on the door by its lonesome, contemplating for a short second before he shrugs. Might as well finish the look; at least wearing Sander's t-shirt is a familiar habit of his.

Clad from top to bottom in Sander's usual get up, Robbe stands in front of the mirror again. He schools his face to look as intimidating as possible — the way Sander always does — lips pulled into a thin line, head slightly tilted back as he looks at his own reflection down his nose, his hands tucked into the pockets of the jacket. 

He bursts into a fit of giggles at how ridiculous he looks. Robbe twists his body this way and that, inspecting himself and trying to understand how his boyfriend sees himself in the mirror, wearing this outfit every day, because Robbe can't even take _himself_ seriously.

Robbe clears his throat and looks at his reflection dead in the eyes. His throat rumbles as he says in as deep a voice as he can muster, "I'm Sander and I'm cool."

"Look at me, I wear all black and a leather jacket, don't fuck with me." Robbe chokes on a laugh at the mental image. "I'll fight you with my 9H pencil."

He doesn't really know what that means, but he saw it once in Sander's pencil set, untouched, so he's guessing it's not a favourite. 

Robbe is so engrossed in his role play he completely forgot to check the time, regretting it the moment he hears a snort from behind him. He gasps, lunging for the bed to bury himself under the covers. Only his head is showing when he yells at Sander, who's leaning against the door frame looking highly amused. 

"You said you'd be back later!"

Sander shrugs. "I thought you'd be happy if I got home earlier."

Which is true, but also besides the point. The point is, he wasn't supposed to get caught doing what he's doing. Robbe makes a sound that's half wailing, half whining when he sees Sander taking a step closer. He pulls the covers up and over his head, wishing for immediate death. 

"Let me change first," he pleads when he feels the mattress dip with Sander's weight. 

"But I didn't even get to see you."

"You weren't _supposed_ to," Robbe grumbles, shirking off Sander's hand that's supposed to be comforting, laid on his shoulder.

"Why not?"

Sander sounds genuinely upset and confused, Robbe can hear the pout in his voice. Logically, Robbe knows Sander is not going to make fun of him, he does, but it doesn't change the fact that he feels embarrassed.

"Because I look stupid," Robbe groans. He can still see himself, the rustling of Sander's jacket that he's _still_ wearing brushing against the bed sheet a stark reminder. "Just shut up and let me change."

"You'd never look stupid, Robbe." Sander runs his hand down Robbe's arm, voice gentle; this time Robbe doesn't shrug him off, somewhat mollified. "And I love it when you wear my clothes."

That has his attention. Robbe peeks his head out, aware that he's red in the face, and stares Sander down. Sander looks back steadily, patient, a small smile on his lips. 

"Come on." Sander is coaxing him with his sweet voice, the one he knows Robbe can't resist, tugging gently at the covers that he's still clutching on for dear life. 

"Don't laugh," he warns.

"Cross my heart."

"Sander."

"Baby, I would _never_ laugh at you. You know that."

Robbe's shoulders droop as he relents, sitting up and leaning against the headboard, still not coming out of hiding. He sees his books and notes all haphazardly strewn about the bed, crumpled and creased in his haste to save his tattered pride. 

He gestures at the mess. "Can you help clean this up first?" At Sander's pointedly raised brow, he pleads once more, needing a bit more time to mentally prepare himself. "Please?"

Sander's eyes soften when he clues in on what Robbe is trying to do. He shrugs and starts picking up his textbooks and handouts, turning his back towards Robbe and taking his time stacking them up neatly at a corner on his desk. 

Robbe scoots over to sit at the end of the bed, shoving his hands under his thighs. He watches Sander for a bit, gathering the bit of resolve in his boyfriend's quiet support, and clears his throat. 

Taking that as his green light, Sander turns around, face already splitting into a grin the moment he lays his eyes on Robbe. 

Robbe feels Sander's eyes rove over him as he takes slow steps towards him. He grips onto the bedsheet under his thighs, willing himself to stay still, can feel himself flush red from the roots of his hair down to his fucking toes. 

When he feels hands grabbing onto his elbow, gently tugging him into standing up, Robbe relents with a soft whine. There's more inspection going on that Robbe wants to be over with before Sander finally says something. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, but you look hot."

Slumping forward into Sander, Robbe lets out another pitiful whine. He somehow knew Sander would say that, is equally pleased and embarrassed for it.

"I look like an idiot," he grumbles. His words are muffled against Sander's shoulder. "I think it's the jacket."

Sander slips his arms underneath it and wraps them around him. "You saying I look stupid wearing this?"

"No," Robbe protests, drawling out the vowel. " _You_ look cool. I just look like a kid playing dress up."

The arms around him tighten and Robbe feels Sander shaking with laughter. He pushes at him, tries to stay upset but ends up giggling anyway. 

"You said you won't laugh!"

"Sorry, sorry." Sander says, dropping a kiss against his shoulder before pulling away, smiling at him so softly it has his heart do a little skip. 

Robbe gives in right away when Sander moves in for a kiss; he deserves it after this whole ordeal.

Leaning back slightly, Sander rakes his eyes over Robbe again, smirking when he fixes his gaze on Robbe's.

"You know what I think?"

Robbe raises his brows.

"I think black suits you very well," Sander says. His hands wander from Robbe's waist, down past it, and settle on his ass — Robbe snorts at how predictable Sander is but lets him have this. "And you should _definitely_ wear this more."

"It's uncomfortable," Robbe points out, plucking at the offending material again. "I swear the fucking stitches are digging into my ass." 

Sander snorts before sighing forlornly. He shakes his head, pouting as he says, "Fine."

"What?" Robbe asks, feigns offence as he squints at Sander. "You have a problem with the way I dress?"

A gleeful smile spreads across Sander's face at that. Robbe regrets his attempt at turning this around and putting Sander in the spot, dreading his next words. 

"Baby, I saw you in bad lighting with your face half covered and I already knew you were mine."

Robbe hates how easily Sander says these things because it's embarrassing, even more so when it _always_ makes him weak in the knees; it always makes his heart go crazy and his palms sweaty. He also hates how Sander insists on maintaining eye contact whenever he does this, letting Robbe see the absolute certainty behind every word he says.

"So, nope. I have zero problems with the way you dress, Robbe." Sander cups his face, his touch so gentle Robbe loses his breath. "You can stick to drowning in your hoodies and baggy jeans, and I will still find you the most beautiful person in the entire universe."

Robbe rolls his eyes. His cheeks flushed completely red, he's sure, but he grins and bumps his forehead against Sander's. "You're hopeless."

"I believe I'm, in your words," Sander lowers his voice, mimicking the way Robbe tried to imitate him earlier, "cool."

Robbe can't even bring himself to be mad. He shakes his head, huffing, fond and exasperated.


End file.
